


propriety

by powerandpathos



Category: Original Work
Genre: Group Sex, Harems, Historical Fantasy, M/M, Original Fiction, Royalty, Search for a Husband, Sex, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:16:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27213304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/powerandpathos/pseuds/powerandpathos
Summary: Phil knows this is his sister’s doing: the suggestion of a ball to find him a husband has created a new type of hunting season, and Phil has never found himself prey before.-Original fiction request: The night of the ball, the Prince of Fuyuan welcomes visitors from all kingdoms in his sister's search to find him a husband. Resigned to the stately duties of entertaining, he never expects to find that his guests have other ways of trying to persuade his hand.
Relationships: Original Male Character(s) & Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 22





	propriety

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to the wonderful Bay for commissioning this piece and entrusting his ideas to me. I hope I have done it justice, and look forward to continuing this story in the future! Thank you to all check this work out. :)

The country manor is a humble, provincial smallholding a three-hour ride from the palace, and its shuttered windows open onto verdant, humid countryside. It’s only spring, but the fields are already ripe with grain and vegetables and, further, the rice fields and vast steppes of faba and mung bean. 

Below, Prince Phillip of Fuyuan can smell the sweet aroma of the apple orchards; he has had a bag of them already tied to his horse’s saddle for the ride back to the palace, which he’ll eat before Zihao can scold him for risking a poison. 

_Assassinations have no format, Phillip,_ he hears his advisor chide. _We must be vigilant where we can._

Phil snorts softly to himself. The sun is warm on his face through the glass; there is a quietness around the manor as if emulating the silence after a heavy rain. Probably, the staff have been told to tiptoe through the corridors and servants’ passages so as not to disturb his tour. A shame, Phil thinks. He wouldn’t mind indulging in the prosaic business of their lives.

Behind him, someone clears their throat.

‘I beg your pardon for my rudeness, Your Highness.’

Phil turns, smiling kindly at the man who stands before him. ‘Not at all,’ he replies. ‘I was just admiring the landscape. It makes the palace seem veritably chaotic.’

The young man is handsome, somewhat rugged. He has the clean, tanned look of a provincial lord, his trousers and shirt made of beige linen with fine red stitching that reveals his station. He has the slight build of a cleric, but his nails are clipped short and his shirt sleeves are rolled neatly to his elbows, allowing Phil to mark the strong width of his tanned forearms and, beneath the cloth, muscled shoulders that would suggest otherwise. He is an appealing display of contradiction and underestimation. 

His dark eyes are unusually arresting beneath a low brow, his nose arrow-straight and lips thin, and dark, jaw-length hair brushed back from his face to reveal high cheekbones made so slightly pink by sunlight and unobscured open skies.

‘I believe you wanted to speak with me, my lord. Has this visit not been to your liking?’

 _Ah,_ thinks Phil. _So this is the governor’s son, Xinjung._ He is only a few years Phil’s junior, set to inherit no less than a thousand acres of land that provides food for more than half the kingdom’s inhabitants.

‘On the contrary,’ Phil replies easily. ‘It seems the land has well-recovered after last year’s drought, but I’m no farmer myself. I sought your opinion. Your father mentioned you oversaw the accounts?

The young lord lifts a brow. ‘You might have saved yourself a visit by simply writing, Your Royal Highness.’

‘My sister would agree, but I like to see things for myself.’

Xinjung rocks back slightly on his heels. ‘Indeed,’ he says, appraising. His smile is thin, and Phil finds his eyes drawn to the man’s lips. ‘And do you like what you see?’

Phil hesitates, but allows a smile in return. His response is carefully cultivated: ‘I think my admiration is worth little if trade is poor. Is there enough harvest to continue supply to Krijksdam?’

Phil knows that for every bag of grain that goes to the markets at Fuyuan, four more are put on a ship to the westlands. Phil’s Krijksdammer mother had been born there and raised a dutchess before marrying the Fuyuan emperor; the nation is a central hub of trade and navy merchants, a country built on water channels and ships. 

Phil had grown up on one of the ships. He remembers setting foot on land in Fuyuan—one of his first memories—how the land beneath him had rocked for days. Too much green; too much manure. For some years, Fuyuan’s ports and mountain streams were his closest friends. 

‘There’s always harvest for Krijksdam,’ says Xinjung. ‘Their coin is worth more than Fuyuan’s.’ At the admission, Xinjung falters. ‘I don’t mean to imply that our priorities aren’t with our own people, of course, but—’

‘I understand,’ says Phil, holding up a hand. ‘The palace provides you with a subsidy for your crops, but you must profit somewhere. You needn’t worry.’

‘I admit, I hadn’t thought you would perceive that, Your Highness.’ Xinjung inclines his head. ‘You’re not a farmer.’

‘And I’m glad for it,’ Phil chuckles. ‘I’m much better suited to cushioned royal duties. I don’t think my body would suit tilling soil for a day.’

‘I don’t know if I’m convinced about that,’ says Xinjung. He inclines his head, a pair of dark, shining eyes settling on the slender lines of Phil’s body, muscle disguised beneath the well-worn veneer of a prince’s clothes. ‘Your Highness.’

Phil chuckles, feeling oddly self-conscious beneath the weight of Xinjung’s stare, then clears his throat. 

He says, ‘You flatter me.’

‘I hope I’m not overstepping my boundaries.’

‘Toeing the border with a great degree of skill,’ Phil allows. 

He realises in the last few minutes that they’ve grown closer, somehow. No—Xinjung has, almost without Phil noticing. This isn’t how he’d imagined a day-trip to the provinces: caught up with the governor’s son in an alcove. Phil glances behind him. The glass is still warm, but the sun will set soon. 

‘I’m afraid I’ll have to take my leave.’

‘You aren’t staying, Your Highness?’ Xinjung asks with a lifted brow. ‘We prepared Her Majesty’s guest chambers for you.’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ says Phil, unable to recall his sister ever allowing herself to stay a night away from the palace, let alone in the provinces. ‘But unfortunately I’m expected at the palace this evening. My sister is eager to hold a ball to fix the unsavoury state of my singlehood, and I am its unfortunate guest of honour.’

‘Ah,’ says Xinjung, with a keenly bright look. ‘Fuyuan’s most eligible bachelor.’

‘You listen to gossip?’

Xinjung scoffs. ‘Out here, Your Highness, we live by it.’ 

‘I don’t know if I’m convinced about that,’ says Phil playfully, and then, with more appropriate politeness: ‘Thank you for your insightful conversation, Xinjung. I hope we can continue it soon. Perhaps at harvest, or after the monsoon season?’

‘Perhaps tonight,’ says Xinjung. When Phil hesitates, Xinjung adds: ‘Empress Lan Fen sent my father and me an invite. I’ll be in attendance for the both of us.’ His smile is shrewd; more beguiling than the smile of a farmer’s son has any right to be. ‘I’ll try not to be late.’

Phil can feel the ground shifting beneath him slightly, unfamiliar territory that might give way at any moment. He’s unused to this forwardness; is it impertinent or appealing? He can't decide. Perhaps Xinjung is simply comfortable enough with the prospect of his inheritance, keenly aware of the vital role his lands play for Fuyuan’s well-being and himself in turn. 

Phil knows this is his sister’s doing: the suggestion of a ball to find him a husband has created a new type of hunting season, and Phil has never found himself prey before.

‘You prepared a room knowing of the ball?’ he asks curiously. 

‘Of course,’ says Xinjung, smiling. ‘Just in case.’

Not knowing quite what that means—not quite sure if he wants to—Phil clears his throat and nods. ‘Tonight, then.’

Xinjung bows low. ‘Tonight, Your Royal Highness. I will be in your service.’

///

Phil has a practiced list of excuses he will never use, but he entertains the thought of them nevertheless: a sprain from riding, his horse spooked by a grass snake, a broken dam that floods the well-kept, well-attended travel roads that stretch across the lands outside the city. Anything that might delay him or stop him from attending tonight entirely if not for the men stationed every few miles along the road, collecting tax or providing aid. Indeed, with their diligent provincial watch, word would travel fast of the prince’s false claims. 

_You listen to gossip?_ he recalls asking. He recalls, also, Xinung’s answering smirk.

No, he will attend the ball, and he will have no choice in the matter. He promised his sister this. It embitters him for the three-hour ride it takes him to return to the royal palace, his horse set at a steady canter that leaves his thighs aching by the end of it. He is bordered closely by a number of soldiers who have their eyes set on the surroundings and their hands on the hilts of their curved _dao_ s _._

The views attempt to soften his mood: vast stretches of fields that lie golden beneath a setting sun, a frothing stream that hugs the banks to his right, crowded by cow parsley and thick reeds where herons lay their eggs. 

A few miles of road are hidden beneath an arched copse of gingko trees that turn gold in autumn and bathe the tracks in yellow leaves after the typhoon season passes through, trodden to dust beneath the heavy steps of horse hooves and carriage wheels. 

It’ll be harvest season when that happens, and Phil thinks briefly of speaking with Xinjung again in the windowed alcove of the manor house, overseeing the land swarmed with busy workers, a column of golden light passed across Xinjung’s shrewd eyes, the curve of his cheekbone.

Phil shakes his head, rolls his shoulders. He sets his gaze on the road ahead.

Phil and his retinue pass through the palace walls with the last few minutes of daylight to spare. The soldiers bid him farewell and steer their horses to the barracks, and Phil declines the offer to have them brush his horse down for him. He takes his time leading his horse to the royal stable, glancing routinely up at the pinkening skyline. 

The guests will be arriving soon in their filigree finery, paying him eagerly with their smiles and attentive looks. Over the past few weeks, Phil has paid virtually no attention to the guestlist Zihao has been routinely placing before his nose in a request for his approval.

At his advisor’s disapproving gaze, he remembers sighing: ‘I don’t need to know who’s coming, Zihao. My sister only requests that I look pretty.’

Zihao’s clipped response is an easy memory. ‘The ball is to find you a lifelong companion, Your Highness,’ he’d said. ‘You’re not up for auction.’

‘Am I not?’ Phil murmurs now, leading his horse to its stall in the Grand Stables. The smell of horses and warm, dry hay tickles Phil’s nose, oddly comforting. The last of the day’s light slips away in the vast glass windows that are flooded in the mornings with golden rays.

As with all things, Phil takes his time brushing the horse down, removing its bridle tack and checking for its hooves, its teeth, pulling a wire brush carefully through its mane. He folds its saddle blankets and buckles the saddle to the wall—then startles.

There is a man standing in the doorway of the stall. 

Phil doesn’t know how long he’s been there. 

‘Your Royal Highness,’ he says quietly, bowing. His face catches the light, and Phil smiles in recognition. Nicolas’ short crop of auburn hair has been tied back and hidden beneath a twill cap, but Nicolas would know his clipped and fading Krijksdam accent anywhere. ‘If it pleases you, I can finish tendin’ to your horse. It’s my job.’

Phil chuckles, beckoning the stablehand into the stall. ‘I know, Nicolas. I promise I’m not trying to usurp your position. It feels only right to care for her myself after making use of her.’

Nicolas allows a glance at the prince. He is only slightly older than Phil, but with a pinkness to his cheeks that makes him seem younger, his skin as creamy and pristine as a doll’s. They came on the ship together from Krijksdam—Phil with his mother, and Nicolas with his. Nicolas’ mother had been a kitchen crewmember who had fallen ill onboard and not survived the journey. Suddenly an orphan by the time they hit Fuyuan’s port, the emperor’s consort had allowed Nicolas to stay within the palace and earn his keep. He chose the stables.

Phil considers him now while they stand across from one another—the prince and the stablehand. They can’t be more different, but Phil knows there is some invisible string that ties them together. Something shared. The ship? Their Krijksdam heritage? The importance of caring for one’s own things? Phil doesn’t know. 

‘She looks well,’ says Nicolas, inspecting the mare with a keen eye, a hand on her flank. ‘No strain? She hasn’t been as far as the provinces in a while.’

‘She rode true,’ Phil replies, tugging off his riding gloves and affixing them beneath the waistband of his jodhpurs. ‘It’s been some time since I left the city walls. It felt good to ride.’

‘Her Majesty would’ve taken a carriage,’ says Nicolas. The statement skirts the edge of a scolding, but Phil doesn’t mind. They’ve known each other long enough, and there is nothing in Nicolas’ words but concern. 

‘Her Majesty worries for her skirts when she rides anything but side-saddle,’ replies Phil, rolling his eyes playfully.

Nic hides a smile. ‘She’s got no preference for riding trousers?’

‘And reveal her anatomy to the public? Stars, no!’

Nic snickers, and Phil enjoys the sound. Soberly Phil says, ‘I say that only in the good humour of a doting brother. My sister has more need to take care of herself than I. If that means taking the carriage—so be it.’

‘You’re not less important to Fuyuan, Your Highness,’ Nic says, frowning. ‘The work you do for its people… We all know it.’

 _We,_ Phil thinks. The people. That group of which Phil knows he is not and never will be a part. For all his work—all his philanthropy and charity—Phil will only ever be its benefactor. He reminds himself this is a privilege. He reminds himself he is blessed not to need the hand or aid of another.

‘Perhaps,’ says Phil. He reaches for a grooming brush, hanging from a hook on the wall, and works gently at his mare’s coat for the second time. 

‘You’ll be late for your party, Your Highness,’ says Nic. ‘Don’t think you’d like bein’ late—not like you to make people wait.’ 

Phil enjoys the assumption. ‘Perhaps,’ he says. ‘But everything else seems so much more distracting.’

‘You’ve always been pretty diligent with this,’ says Nic, gesturing to his horse.

‘You mean to say my lateness is acceptable so long as I’m remaining true to myself?’

Nic hesitates. He opens his mouth, then closes it. Phil’s face softens. Nicolas isn’t a man like Xinjung, eager to trade up sharp commentary and a sharper gaze. No, he should be handled with care and a greater deal of affection—a simplicity that Phil admires. With a man like Nicolas, there is nothing to hide.

‘You should come,’ says Phil, turning fully and letting the brush hang to his side.

‘Sir?’

‘Tonight, to the ball. I’d like for you to come. Your familiar presence would be appreciated.’

‘M’lord, I—’ Nic swallows, then nods to himself, his jaw made firm by the clench of his teeth. He speaks slowly: ‘Sir, I don’t think anyone else would appreciate it. I think it would be above my station to be anythin’ but a servant there.’

Phil’s hands tighten around the brush. He isn’t immune to the insidious nature of Fuyuan’s hierarchy. In countries like Krijksdam or Aljeer, a man or woman might rise to become anything. In Fuyuan, the system is centuries-firm, and Phil’s sister has done nothing to change it. Probably, she never will. It would _upset_ things. Phil shakes his head.

‘You’ve worked for my family since we were boys, Nic,’ Phil says firmly. ‘If anyone has a problem, they can speak with me.’

‘My lord…’

‘Please, Nicolas.’ Phil steps forward, smiles kindly. ‘I’d like for you to be there. I’ll have Zihao send you a suit.’

‘Sir, it’s not proper—’

‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Phil cuts in. He hands Nicolas the brush. ‘Here. Have someone tend to the stable for the night—I will see you in the ballroom.’

///

Zihao is waiting for him when he finally returns to his chambers. He leaves his riding boots outside the door to be taken and cleaned by a maid, and starts to unbuckle his riding coat as he shoulders the door to a close behind him. 

Zihao is sitting on the upholstered arm of a chair when Phil catches sight of him, his arms folded and his long legs stretched out before him, crossed at the ankles. His sharp features are expressionless, his thin mouth pursed. 

He has the thin, almost gaunt look of a man who has never quite had enough sleep, made worse by the shadows set beneath curiously light eyes and in the pockets of his cheeks, and the shaved sides of his brown hair that reveal too much of his skull. Phil’s sister has called him _elfish_ before, all sharp angles and hard points and willowy limbs, but there is something serene and ghostly to his quiet sternness.

Zihao’s spectacles rest in the open spine of a book, left abandoned on a side table, where usually they would sit on the slight bump across the ridge of his nose, a broken bone never quite healed. 

_Oh dear,_ thinks Phil.

‘You’re late.’

‘Don’t be so hard on me, dear Zihao,’ Phil replies lightly, hiding a grimace. ‘I got caught up at the stable.’

‘The ostler couldn’t tend to your horse?’

‘I very politely declined _Nicolas’_ offer. I’m very capable of caring for my own mount.’

Zihao pulls a face, then stands. ‘A bath has been drawn for you, and your robes are on the bed. I should hope the water hasn’t gone cold by now.’

Phil sighs. He lays his riding coat over the low-set table in the centre of the room and brushes past the advisor, patting him on the shoulder. 

‘Don’t fret, Zihao,’ he tells his old friend. ‘There will still be a ball—and enough rice wine and Aljeer _arak_ that no one will be any the wiser whether I am there not.’

Zihao’s voice carries behind him as he opens to the door to his bed chambers. ‘There will be a hundred guests after your hand!’ he calls out. ‘There won’t be a single set of eyes that does not watch your every move!’

‘How comforting,’ Phil mutters under his breath and, leaving Zihao in the foyer, shuts the door behind him.

For a moment, he stands there, the base of his skull pressed to the back of the door. He can feel a headache coming on, and rejoices in the cool darkness of the room. The bath has been carried into the centre of the room and set between the end of his bed and the large fireplace that lays dormant against the wall; steam still curls whisper-like from the surface. Of course Zihao would not allow for it to go cold. Phil removes his riding clothes carefully, feeling a pinched soreness between his shoulder blades. 

He catches his reflection in the corner of the room, his lean musculature, slight calves that give way to broad thighs. He’d be at risk of wiriness if he did not have the kitchen staff readily offering food at every corner of the palace—no opportunity to indulge in his ability to forget about all needs but those of his own.

He groans as his skin hits the warm water, unlocking the tight fixings of his spine and shoulders, like oil on a rusted hinge. He can’t take his time: this is no time to relax, but Phil closes his eyes as his neck presses to the curved edge of the tub. 

‘Don’t fall asleep.’

Phil jerks upright. Water sloshes over the sides of the bath and onto the well-oiled floorboards, pooling in strange puddles where it can’t penetrate the wood.

‘I didn’t mean to frighten you,’ says Zihao, shutting the bedroom door behind him. His expression is one of chagrin. ‘I came to apologise.’

Phil sighs; he minds Zihao’s intrusion not one bit. He’s sure Zihao has seen him nude more than Phil has seen his own body himself. Fittings, ceremonies—Zihao’s disinterested presence in the corner of the room while Phil endures a ritual bathing. 

‘There’s nothing you need to apologise for,’ Phil says, settling himself back into the soapy water. It smells of lavender. ‘You’re my advisor, Zihao. You have my best interests at heart always.’

‘Maybe,’ says Zihao, hovering before the door. His hands are clasped behind his back, his eyes somewhere vaguely on the wall across from him. ‘I wished you hadn’t chosen today to go to the provinces, and I’ve been holding it against you.’

‘I wasn’t going to be late,’ Phil tells him, moving the water along his arms. ‘It wouldn’t have been worth your anger when I came back—or my sister’s.’

There is a pause, then Zihao says, ‘It wasn’t your lateness I was concerned about. I simply wish I had been with you.’

‘There aren’t many things that could have gone wrong with a day-trip to the provinces, Zihao. I wasn’t going to Krijksdam or Aljeer.’

‘That’s—’ Zihao breaks off. Still, he won’t look Phil in the eye.

With a sigh, Phil finishes washing himself and stands. Water runs in rivulettes across the sculpted planes of his body. In a few short strides, Zihao is there. He has a towel held out before him. His dark eyes are shadowed. This close, Phil can see that sharpness is even more pronounced today, his jawline cut like a knife. 

‘Zihao,’ Phil says softly, taking the towel from his hands. He brushes it across his chest, around the back of his neck, then ties it around his waist as he steps from the bath. ‘What’s troubling you, my friend?’

Zihao works his jaw. ‘By tomorrow, you may have a husband. I feel I have lost all my time with you.’ 

Phil’s eyebrows rise. ‘How can you be unhappy? You wanted to arrange this ball, didn’t you? And you have done: thoroughly and expertly.’

‘At your sister’s behest.’

Phil frowns. He moves away to his dressing table, where he reaches for a fine-toothed comb to run through the short crop of his black hair that hangs into his eyes. 

‘When have you ever sided with my sister’s needs over mine?’

‘When she knows your needs more than you. We’ve had this discussion, Phillip. You need a partner.’

‘Need,’ Phil scoffs. ‘I need no one else to carry out my duties—’

‘But Fuyuan would like to see that you aren’t carrying out those duties alone.’

‘Alone?’ Phil asks, glancing over his shoulder. ‘I’m not alone—I have you. As I have always done.’

‘An advisor is not a husband.’

There is something strange about the way Zihao says it that makes Phil put the comb down. It is warm in the room, but his bare chest is beginning to gooseflesh. He eyes the dress robes laid out for him on the bed. 

Krijksdammer fashion has made its touch on the palace in the last two centuries, and the odd suit is coloured with Fuyuan’s red and purple colours, no longer the elaborate _mianfu_ Phil has seen in his ancestors’ portraits. Phil moves towards it and, unselfconsciously, begins to dress while Zihao hovers behind him. 

His skin is still sticky with damp; he grows frustrated with the waistcoat that fits tight around his chest, the long coat that is too warm to wear and trails to the backs of his thighs. It’s Zihao who comes forward and ties the traditional gold Fuyuan sash about his waist. Zihao’s chest is wide as he stands before him, like he’s holding a breath. His hands work knowingly at the fabric, fingers nimble and long as if made for a _guzheng._

‘An advisor is not a husband,’ Zihao says again quietly. ‘But I would do my best.’

There is a pause.

Phil’s mouth parts.

Unconsciously, he takes a step back, and Zihao’s hands fall from the sash. It is testament to his own courage that Zihao does not drop his gaze. 

‘Zihao…’

‘I know you will have your pick of suitors tonight. I know…’ Zihao’s dark eyes go to the ceiling, his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He shakes his head. ‘I know I have helped to design the arrangements of your marriage to another. But should any of them be unsuitable… I would ask that you choose me.’

‘Zihao—’

‘I would remain your advisor and companion, if that is what you wished. I could—be something more, too. If you wanted.’

Phil thinks if he tries to speak again Zihao won’t stop talking. Instead, he stays silent. His mind is racing. It goes first to practicality: Zihao’s family is a wealthy one, making its fortune from banking and clerkship and, mostly, from merchant ships when Fuyuan’s port first opened to Krijksdam. The match will not be unsuitable, and Zihao is not unhandsome. He will be whatever Phil wants. 

_If that is what you wished._

Phil closes his eyes briefly. Emotion makes itself known, no longer contained. How has he not seen this? His friend, his advisor, his companion at every turn, brimming with enough affection to declare it the night of the ball where Phil is to find a husband. There must have been signs. Gestures. Obliquely worded sentences that Phil was too distracted to unpick, too preoccupied with providing work and housing for Fuyuan’s poor, regulating fair trading levies, and ensuring there will be enough to eat for his people through the winter. 

Love has fallen far behind. 

Indeed, he has not tried to search for it right in front of him.

How will it go, he wonders, when the night comes to an end and Phil stands with Zihao at his desk, poring over the guest list from the ball and picking out potential suitors. How can Zihao possibly advise Phil when his own interests are so conflicted? Phil bites down hard on his tongue. This mess is his own doing—he should have noticed sooner.

He swallows, his throat clicking dryly. ‘Zihao,’ he begins, uncertain, this territory too foreign. ‘If I were to decline you, what would become of us? A sensible man would leave the palace and never return. You are nothing if not sensible. It would not—no, it could not make you happy to still stand at my side if I am with another.’

‘Is that your answer?’ Zihao asks quietly. 

Phil stares at him. Then, he reaches for Zihao’s hand and squeezes it tightly. ‘It is not a no, my friend.’

‘But it isn’t a yes.’

Phil looks away, feeling ashamed. A part of him wonders if he does not owe it to the man to give him this—but no. There would be no happiness for either of them if Phil didn’t mean it. If nothing else, he owes Zihao fairness.

‘I promise we will discuss this,’ Phil says. ‘But after the ball. I promise I won’t make any decision tonight that you aren’t privy to.’

‘I hadn’t wanted to make you uncomfortable.’

 _Too late,_ Phil thinks, but he shrugs affably. ‘I don’t think any part of the evening was intended to be comfortable for me.’

Zihao allows a thin smile. ‘Indeed,’ he says. He reaches for Phil’s coronet, and places it with careful familiarity atop Phil’s crown. ‘If there is only one thing you aren’t proficient in, it is matters of the heart.’

‘I don’t proclaim to be otherwise,’ Phil says with a snort. He grips Zihao on the forearm briefly, glancing at the clock on the mantle. ‘Come—or I really will be late.’

///

The grand hall is fuller than Phil has ever seen it. At his back, Zihao draws a sharp intake of breath as the large doors open before them and a herald announces Phil’s presence. The music continues, a bright, jilting Krijksdammer tune that livens the hall, but every pair of eyes assesses Phil keenly from where he stands at its entrance. Every man bows deeply; every woman curtseys low to the floor. Phil spies dresses and robes and ceremonial garb from every nearby nation, and swallows tightly behind a smile. 

He knows a handful of guests are merely there through customary politeness, their invitations a gesture of his sister’s goodwill to foreign dignitaries, but he knows most will be eager for his hand, his ear, his eyes. He feels like a sheep suddenly thrown to the wolves.

Zihao is a firm presence at his back, and despite the revelation in his bedroom, Phil’s grateful that Zihao will steer him through the evening and the throng of guests where he can. Tiredness tugs at Phil from the day’s journey; already he is wondering when it would be polite to take his leave. 

A ball, he has learnt, is for the entertainment of its guests and not its host.

He feels a flicker of happiness as he spies Nicolas in the crowd, before his gaze shifts to his sister. She has been provided a wide berth at his approach, and he bestows a kiss on her cheek. Her silken black hair has been tied up and affixed with gold ornaments that shape peonies and the winged body of a phoenix, her face painted to an exact Fuyuan beauty. 

Phil never met her mother, their father’s first wife and consort, but he recognises the shape of his sister’s jawline, the narrow slope of her nose—those features, they share. 

Her consort, Prince Faruq, stands slightly behind her, a kind man of Aljeer royalty. He inclines his head towards Phil, his eyes dark and quiet. 

‘Your Majesties,’ Phil says quietly, tasting the powder from his sister’s face on his lips. ‘This is quite the evening you have prepared in my honour. I’m grateful to you.’

Lan Fen chuckles quietly, her red-painted lips parting widely. ‘You know I can tell when you’re lying, dear brother.’ Her eyes shift to Zihao’s, twinkling. ‘Terrible, isn’t he?’

‘Lying?’ Phil replies smoothly. ‘Me?’ 

There is quiet chatter around them, and some of the guests have taken up dancing towards the middle of the room, but Phil and his sister keep the tone of the conversation low. He knows every guest would be eager to snatch part of the royals’ exchange if in earshot.

‘Bear it,’ she tells him. ‘Speak to a few young lords, a few of the merchants set to inherit, and then you may take your absence. You cannot have me believe that a whole ballroom of young men could not attract your eye.’

‘My eye is never expected to be so diligently trained, dear sister.’

Lan Fen grins. ‘Why do I find that hard to believe?’ 

She looks around, then beckons someone in the throng of nearby guests with her hand. Phil doesn’t see who it is until he passes his way through to the front. He’s a tall, western man—perhaps from Aljeer, or further? His teeth are extraordinarily white against his dark skin when he smiles, and Phil finds himself blinking at the gesture. His black hair has been neatly shaven against his skull.

Lan Fen says, ‘Phillip, may I present Oba Onanojah, son of—’

‘Obabirin Agbani,’ Phil cuts in, stunned. He reaches for Onanojah’s hand, finds it warm and strong as it clasps around his own. ‘I’m honoured, _Kabiyesi_. Your mother and I have exchanged many letters—she has great insight on the successful distribution of grain to your peoples. The Niato Empire is a marvel to us all.’

Onanojah chuckles. His voice is a deep baritone, pleasant to the ear. ‘Yes, she talks much of your curiosity and eagerness. You have a good heart, Prince Phillip of Fuyuan.’

‘Thank you, Oba—’

‘Nojah is fine,’ the prince cuts in. ‘But please—’ He gestures to Lan Fen, and to Zihao. ‘—let’s not talk trade or politics or, ancestors forbid it, of my _mother_ this evening. This ball is in your honour. I would hate to think that you did not have, how do you say it, a good time?’

Phil laughs softly, inclining his head in acquiescence. In present company, there’s no possibility of him explaining to the Niato prince that he would rather talk trade or politics than endure the watchful gaze of every unmarried and eligible man in the hall. 

‘Perhaps instead,’ Nojah murmurs, distractingly intimate, ‘we might have a dance together after you have made a, what is the phrase, turn about the room?’

Phil quirks a brow. ‘Under the disguise of a political discussion?’

‘Ha!’ Nojah booms. ‘A good heart and a smart brain!’ He looks to Phil’s sister. ‘I am beginning to appreciate your invitation even more, Your Majesty.’

‘You weren’t before?’ she asks. 

Nojah smiles. ‘Two weeks at sea will make most men and women sceptical of what they might find at the end of their journey. It seems I should not have worried.’ He bows to Lan Fen and Phil. ‘Enjoy your evening, Your Excellencies.’

In his wake, there is a brief silence. A waiter passes, providing them with stout cups of _baijiu_ which they all drink and settle back onto the tray, then Faruq clears his throat. 

‘What a charming man,’ he says.

‘Indeed,’ Zihao murmurs quietly. Phil glances at him, his expression unreadable. 

_I don’t think any part of this evening was intended to be comfortable for me._

Phil turns to his sister. ‘Are you enjoying your matchmaking, Your Majesty?’ 

Lan Fen grins, the effect making her appear roguish and young. She motions for another passing waiter, reaching for another cup. She smiles behind the rim of the glass. ‘You know, dear brother, I think this will turn out to be an immensely successful evening.’ 

Phil sighs. The second cup of _baijiu_ strips its way down the back of his throat as he swallows, and he winces. He puts the cup back on the tray and meets his sister’s gleeful gaze.

‘Define success?’

///

The first hour passes slowly. 

Phil drinks more _baijiu_ than he thinks he should, and greets only a handful of familiar faces, towards whom his warmth flows freely. With the rest he is princely and courteous, but treads the territory of greeting strangers with polite caution. By the time he catches sight of Nicolas on the edge of the crowd, his shoulders are taut with tension.

Zihao leaves to find Phil something more substantial to eat than fish balls, and Phil smiles as Nicolas makes his way over from the wall he has his back pressed against, as if he might remove himself entirely from the room by leaning into it hard enough. 

‘You look displeased, my friend,’ Phil tells him, gripping him loosely on the arm in greeting. 

The stablehand shrugs. There is pink on his cheeks, and a brightness to his eyes that suggests he has helped himself gladly to the passing drinks trays. 

‘Just a bit out of my depth, Your Highness,’ says Nicolas. ‘Don’t have much in common with these people other than the servin’ staff.’

Phil’s smile fades slightly. ‘You wish I hadn’t made you come.’

‘Don’t mind it, m’lord. It’s real interestin’ to watch, just not sure I belong here. Sir.’

Phil assesses him and the high, stiff collar of his dark suit that lightens his already-pale skin, made for cold winters and more dark nights than days. Gold buttons gleam down his torso, for decoration more than practicality, and his dark trousers shape loosely outwards at the knees before tapering in to reveal slight, strong calves. An astray glance, and he might be mistaken for Krijksdam royalty.

‘Your suit, at least, becomes you. Zihao chose well.’

Nicolas flushes interestingly. ‘I appreciate it, Your Highness. Not sure when I wore somethin’ other than boots and breeches and smelled of horse shit.’

Phil’s laugh is loud and draws attention. Nic’s shoulders curve inwards as he realises he’s garnered a great degree of curiosity from the hall. Indeed, Phil knows what they’re thinking: who is this young, white-skinned, red-headed fellow who has made the prince laugh so? In those clothes, even a local might not recognise him. Phil swallows the answer like an indulgent secret. 

‘I am glad you came,’ he tells Nic warmly. 

‘I am, too,’ Nic replies, and Phil knows he is telling the truth. Nic hesitates, then asks, ‘How’s the search goin’?’

‘The search?’

Nicolas makes a vague gesture. ‘The husband hunt.’

Phil laughs again. The curiosity of the surrounding guests must be burning now, a search for gossipy information running through the clusters like a wildfire. _Who is he? A Kirjksdammer, you say? From which family? Perhaps I know them._

‘It’s going… well.’ Phil spreads his hands. ‘It’s going.’

Nicolas cranes his neck, putting on a show. ‘Which foreign king have you chosen?’

Phil snorts. ‘None,’ he says. ‘Although…’

His mind, briefly, drifts to Nojah—the wideness of his smile, of his shoulders, his hands. Phil shakes his head. Cultural, political intrigue—that’s all. He couldn’t bear to leave Fuyuan for the glittering cities of the Niato Empire. This is his home; he won’t trade it for any part of someone’s large, well-groomed hand. 

‘Although?’ Nicolas prompts.

Phil breathes out evenly. ‘Nothing, I was just—’

‘Your Highness.’

Phil glances over his shoulder. His breath catches at the sight of a sharp smile, the eager-eyed gaze that is making dangerous kinds of promises. 

‘Xinjung.’

‘I hope you don’t mind the intrusion, sir—I was hoping we might have a dance.’

Phil considers him, eye trailing from head to toe. Xinjung wears no Krijksdammer suit, no mix of cultures or beige farming cloth built for practicality. Instead, he bares all the beauty of Fuyuan garb, intricately folded layers of gold cloth and a simple sash at the waist to hold it all together with unassuming strength.

 _I have known you barely a day,_ Phil thinks _, and yet it suits you exactly._

‘You made it from the provinces in one piece?’ is Phil’s response.

‘All the pieces that matter,’ Xinjung replies, his eyes twinkling. ‘I was close on your tail for half the journey.’

‘If I had known you were leaving so soon after I departed…’

Xinjung inclines his head. ‘I had thought it might be impertinent to suggest we share a carriage, my lord.’

‘I—’

‘His Highness doesn’t take a carriage,’ says Nic. ‘He’s a horseman.’

 _Oh, Nicolas,_ Phil thinks. The stablehand’s cheeks have gone rosy with blood, and the look he spares Xinjung is grim. Phil knows Xinjung could make swift work of Nic if he wanted to—Nic is a sheep baring its teeth before a wolf.

Xinjung lifts a single brow. ‘Is that so?’ he asks, his gaze sweeping Nicolas from head to toe. He pauses, head tilted, listening for an accent and considering his clothing. ‘Krijksdam, is it?’

A muscle jumps in Nic’s jaw. ‘Not anymore,’ he says. ‘This is my home.’

‘Hm,’ says Xinjung. He looks back to Phil. ‘A dance, Your Royal Highness?’

‘I’m afraid I have promised my hand to another this evening,’ says Phil. He wets his lips, then clarifies: ‘For the first dance.’

Xinjung’s smile is amused. ‘I’m relieved to hear it. For a moment, I thought all hope was lost.’ He cranes his neck. ‘And to whom are you first promised?’

‘The son of Obabirin Agbani.’

Xinjung stops searching the room. ‘Ah,’ he says, with forced politeness. ‘Yes, perhaps all hope is lost.’

Phil chuckles. ‘I have made no other kinds of promises to any man,’ he tells Xinjung. ‘I’ll make no decisions—no assumptions.’ He smiles self-deprecatingly. ‘Tonight, I am fair game.’

‘Yes,’ Xinjung murmurs, his dark eyes hooded. His gaze hovers between Phil and Nic, as if calculating something. ‘Fair indeed.’

///

He takes his first dance with his sister, as would be customary, and then his second with Nojah. He is a good dancer, but moves as if newly educated on the gestures of Fuyuan arrangements, precisely recalling his training to a stiff exactitude. It impresses Phil, nevertheless. In two weeks, Nojah has learnt their customs near exactly and has the confidence to request a first dance displayed before the whole hall. 

As they move through the room, Phil sees their faces: Zihao, Xinjung, Nicolas—others with whom he’s talked to throughout the evening, others he’s yet to meet. His stomach has begun to knot, and the alcohol and _baozi_ Zihao found to line his stomach have helped him not one bit.

‘I would like to attend a Niati ball one day,’ Phil tells Nojah as he—the taller, broader of the two—leads them around the room. 

Nojah glances down at him, smiling. ‘Your Highness?’ he queries.

‘Yes,’ Phil says. ‘I would like to see a dance where you are not so concentrated on stepping on my feet.’ 

Nojah laughs. ‘Does it show so plainly on my face?’

‘Only to me,’ says Phil. ‘The closeness allows for me to conduct a thorough examination.’

‘And what are your findings, Your Highness?’

‘I’ll have to keep some secrets to myself.’

‘Of course,’ Nojah says, inclining his regal head. ‘A man is nothing without his secrets.’ 

The room spins about them. The shivering hum of an _erhu_ runs through the hall, and Phil can feel goosebumps rising on his arms. Already the dancing is making him warm, but he enjoys it: here, the conversation is hidden by the sound of music and the rustle of cloth. As more guests take to the floor with their partners to join with the dance, any brief snatches of conversation they hear will be senseless.

‘How long will you be at the palace?’ Phil asks Nojah. ‘Surely you haven’t made the journey only to stay a night.’

‘My mother would like for me to visit relatives and ambassadors in Aljeer and Krijksdam on the journey home,’ Nojah tells him. ‘But your sister has invited me to stay for at least a week before I begin my travels.’ He slides his gaze to Phil’s, and wears a faux grimace. ‘I worry now that I have had an unfair advantage.’

‘Oh?’

‘I have claimed this dance with you, and secured a week in your home. The rest of these poor men have only a night.’

‘Ah,’ Phil says, smiling slowly in understanding. He thinks of Xinjung, standing with him before the window in the provinces. Of Nic in the stables. Of Zihao, ever close. ‘If it makes you feel better, some of the guests have other advantages, too.’

Nojah grimaces, this time with no humoured pretense. ‘It does not,’ he says simply.

_Oh._

They do not talk for the rest of the dance. There is loud, scattered applause towards the orchestra, and then to Phil and Nojah. Both men bow in deep thanks, and Phil steps back before Nojah can start up another conversation for Phil to put his foot into. 

_This is why I have no time for a lover,_ he thinks. _I don’t understand the game._

‘Please excuse me,’ says Phil. He catches Zihao’s eye in the crowd, and beckons him over to one side of the hall while the next dance begins. By the time Phil glances behind him, Nojah has already found himself a new partner.

‘Is everything well, Your Highness?’ Zihao murmurs as he comes to Phil’s side.

‘I need a little air before we continue.’

Zihao straightens. ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Come with me.’

Phil shakes his head, putting a hand on Zihao’s arm before he can leave. ‘Alone,’ he says. ‘I won’t be long. I just wanted to make you aware of my whereabouts.’

Zihao hesitates, but eventually bows his head. ‘Of course,’ he says again. ‘I will wait for you by the entrance of the hall.’

///

Most of the palace has been closed off to wandering guests, each door barred by a pair of guards with _dao_ buckled at their waists. They stand to attention when Phil passes through the hall and out into the passageway, and he follows familiar twisting routes before eventually emerging outside and into one of the private courtyards, unbothered by guests or prying eyes. 

A small pond fills the centre of the courtyard, overshadowed by the ornate lattice of a pagoda made of iron and wood, on the floor of which a number of square bamboo mats and pillows have been placed for lounging; in the mornings, the servants bring a low table onto the pagoda where Phil has often shared tea with Zihao or his sister. 

Tonight, the humid spring evening has gone cool, and Phil is grateful for the cool breeze that passes over the back of his neck. He tastes the _baijiu_ on his tongue still. He feels the solid guidance of Nojah leading him through the ballroom, a firm, ghost-like touches on his arm. 

He knows that’s what it would be: firm guidance. Not the tentative suggestion of an advisor, like Zihao, but the firm persuasion of a man who knows what it is to have power, and a new country in which to exact it. Crossing the small panelled bridge to the pagoda, Phil shakes his head. 

_Is that what I’m concerned about?_ he thinks. _Giving up my freedoms? Giving up power?_

He knows he isn’t his sister; as a prince, and not a king, his partner will be no quiet consort, a supporting figure at his back like Faruq. If he were to marry Nojah, their duties would be shared. Their word would be combined. Phil’s decisions would not be final. Until now, he hadn’t realised how much he relished his own company and shunned the input of another.

Phil rests his hands on the wooden railing that runs the perimeter of the pagoda. He breathes out slowly. 

‘I was not prepared for this,’ he murmurs to himself. 

‘Perhaps you might have set different expectations.’

Phil startles, turning. Xinjung’s dark eyes glitter at him from the other side of the small bridge. He has his arms folded, a hip propped against the railing. 

‘You followed me?’ Phil demands. 

‘Yes.’

Phil pauses. That wasn’t the answer he’d expected. 

‘The guards—’

‘A handful knew me,’ says Xinjung. ‘A number of your soldiers once worked on our fields. Working with the land is easy work when there’s no military campaign to occupy them in winter.’

Phil shakes his head. The railing digs into his spine. He wears no armour tonight—no weapons. He’d thought he wouldn’t need them. Is he wrong? 

‘If you call the guards, they will still run to your aid,’ says Xinjung. ‘But I have no intention of harming you, my lord.’

‘You really do have your hands in so many pies, don’t you?’ Phil asks quietly. He almost calls him a farmer, but the quip would be an insult. He knows Xinjung is, before anything, a businessman. 

‘Your sister was banking on that,’ says Xinjung. ‘Our union would be a phenomenal one, between your attempts at social revolution and my business.’ 

Phil shakes his head. ‘The system we have in place—the subsidy we pay you to feed our people—it already works. I don’t need to marry you to improve it.’

His words are a warning: _Your position is not the bargaining chip you think it is, Xinjung. And I am not a gambling man._

Xinjung shrugs. ‘I’m not the only potential suitor here tonight, my lord. But when you consider me—consider that, too.’

Phil stares at him. ‘Are you _blackmailing_ me?’

For a brief moment, a look of shock flashes across Xinjung’s face, before settling into bemused composure. ‘No, my lord,’ he says eventually—politely, as if speaking to an emotional child. ‘I would win your hand only by your choosing.’

Phil forces himself to relax. There is no danger here, but Xinjung puts him on edge, sets his blood to run fast through his veins, charged with adrenaline. He realises, with startling clarity, that he likes it. 

‘You seem so confident,’ Phil remarks. ‘You’re so sure that it will be you whom I choose?’

Xinjung bobs his head from side to side. ‘I think, my lord,’ he says, taking a step forward. ‘That I have taken hold of an advantage.’

Phil watches him approach, treading carefully across the bridge, slender fingers trailing across the railing, Xinjung’s movements steady and even so as not to spook. Phil swallows. 

‘And what advantage is that?’

Xinjung stops before him, and suddenly Phil is in the alcove of the manor overlooking Xinjung’s land, not knowing how the man is suddenly so much closer to him—not avoiding the closeness, either. This close, Phil can feel the warmth that comes from Xinjung’s body; he can see the flecks of bronze in his eyes that are otherwise dark as coal. Phil’s eyes go to Xinjung’s lips, and he knows he’s done for. 

‘This,’ says Xinjung, and kisses him. 

There is no sharp hardness to it—no urgency. Phil feels heat begin to pool in his abdomen as he indulges in its softness, Xinjung’s lips pressing against his own. He feels them curve into a smile as Phil puts a hand to Xinjung’s waist, and he lets Xinjung pull him closer. The garden is silent around them: water laps, a cicada hums from the boughs of a camphor tree. Their quiet, hot breath spills between them. 

When they break, Phil is speechless. 

‘You hadn’t considered this,’ Xinjung says, eyes pinched at the corners. He’s close to laughing. ‘You hadn’t considered anything more than the technicalities, had you?’

‘It—didn’t seem relevant.’

‘For shame, Phillip,’ Xinjung murmurs, crowding close once again. His lips planted on Phil’s neck, he murmurs, ‘It’s the most important thing of all.’ 

A glance towards the doors into the palace confirms that they have remained shut, and the quiet garden is wholly theirs as Xinjung presses him to the railing around the pagoda. It hurts slightly, digging into his lower back, and he pushes Xinjung back with his mouth, catching Xinjung’s lower lip with his teeth and indulging in the groan that it elicits. 

Xinjung responds in kind: his mouth goes to Phil’s neck, feasting at his throat until it feels as if Xinjung can pull his pulse from his neck and stop his heart. Phil’s knees shake beneath him. He slams a hand into a wooden beam beside his head, groans out as Xinjung pulls blood to the surface of his neck. 

‘Stop,’ he gasps. ‘Stop, I—I can’t be marked. The guests—’

Xinjung chuckles darkly, pulling away. ‘You expected me to return you to the ball?’

‘Xinjung—’

‘Hush, Your Highness. You’re doing a very poor job of letting me win you over.’

Phil laughs helplessly, and Xinjung uses the distraction to plant his knee between Phil’s thigh, shifting upwards until Phil gasps. 

‘That’s right,’ Xinjung murmurs. ‘Just like—’

_‘Your Highness!’_

Phillip jerks, and Xinjung darts backwards. Neither of them heard the doors open, and Phil is breathing hard beneath the look of shock Zihao bores into him. Phil forces himself to straighten, refastens the buttons that have, at some unknown point, come undone. Embarrassment floods through him. Of all people… He tries to clear his head, tries to produce an explanation.

‘Zihao, this isn’t—’

‘It is,’ Xinjung interrupts, before Phil can say anything further. ‘It is exactly what it looks like.’

Zihao’s gaze darts between the two of them, tight and pained, torn between duty and personal desire.

Xinjung takes a step forward, shielding Phil’s body from view. ‘You can stand there and watch,’ he says, ‘or you can leave.’

Phil’s head twists to Xinjung. ‘Do not speak with him like that—’

‘Is there no option three?’ 

Zihao’s voice is so quiet Phil nearly misses his words, but the otherwise silence of the garden makes them heard. From here, there is no sound of the guests or the ball taking place within the bowels of the palace. The ballroom feels a whole world away.

‘Option three?’ Xinjung asks, voice thick with curiosity. He sounds eager, like a new, more exciting rule has been introduced to his dangerously crafted game. 

Over Xinjung’s shoulder, Phil watches as Zihao nods stiffly, stepping forward. His jaw is clenched tight enough to snap. 

‘Option three,’ Zihao repeats, ‘is where I join in.’

Silence.

Slowly, Xinjung turns his head until his gaze latches onto Phil’s. 

_I dare you,_ his look says. 

‘On your word, Your Royal Highness.’

It feels as if the floor has been swept out from beneath Phil—and yet. The thought of intimacy with Zihao, alone, makes his throat feel tight. The thought of intimacy with Zihao and Xinjung together sets something aching in the base of his spine that he doesn’t recognise, a painless wanting. He doesn’t know what to call it or where it comes from. The fading pressure of Xinjung’s thigh firm between his own has him hard. 

Xinjung has opened a door that Phil no longer wants to close. 

_You hadn’t considered anything more than the technicalities, had you?_

No. No, he hadn’t. And now—he can think of nothing else.

‘Yes,’ he says. 

Both men look sharply at him. 

‘Yes?’ Zihao chokes out, at the same time as Xinjung says, ‘ _Well,_ ’ with the tone of a man whose copper coin has suddenly turned into gold.

For what feels like an eternity, no one moves. 

‘Oh, for heaven’s—’ Xinjung veers forward, grabbing Zihao at the thin juncture of his wrist bone and dragging him over. Xinjung deposits him right in front of Phil, who stands still with uncertainty. He doesn’t know how this is supposed to work. Xinjung, apparently, does. 

Xinjung stands behind Zihao and presses his lips to his ear. ‘Kiss him,’ he murmurs.

There is the dry sound of Zihao’s throat clicking as he swallows. ‘I—’

‘Kiss him,’ Xinjung says again. ‘Or I will.’

Zihao hesitates again. ‘Your Highness—’

He says nothing more. The touch of his lips against Phil’s is strange, something foreign and yet so familiar. So much has passed those lips, but Phil has never imagined them against his own. 

_A shame,_ a part of him thinks, groaning into Zihao’s mouth. He’s a good kisser—practiced. The thought of Zihao pressing someone into one of the dark palace hallways makes Phil ache. 

Suddenly, Zihao makes a choked sound from the back of his throat, and Phil opens his eyes for a moment to see that Xinjung’s hands have gone to Zihao’s waist, reaching around to stroke the heel of his palm along Zihao’s hard length, visibly pressing against his clothes.

‘He wants you, Your Highness,’ Xinjung murmurs, smiling indulgently as his lips discover a spot behind Zihao’s neck. He grazes his teeth along it, and Phil feels Zihao’s whole body tremble with the sensation. ‘He’s wanted you for a long time, haven’t you?’

Zihao whimpers, but his hands go to Phil’s hair, fingers knotting in the dark strands until Phil gasps at the sting. His eyes squeeze shut again. Zihao moves hungrily against his mouth and Phil finds himself responding in kind. He moans at the pressure of Zihao’s tongue against his own, wet heat sliding across his tongue. The ache between his thighs is enough to hurt, straining against the fabric of his clothes. 

‘I think he’s going to come, Your Highness,’ Xinjung murmurs. 

There’s no one touching Xinjung, nothing for him to indulge in but the sight of Zihao and Phil before him; no pleasure but that of others. 

_He gets off on this_ , Phil realises. 

Phil pulls back from Zihao, struggling for breath. 

‘Let him come,’ he orders.

Zihao groans. ‘Phillip, I—’

‘Is that what you want?’ Xinjung murmurs in Zihao’s ear. His hand is moving quickly now against Zihao’s cock, and Zihao’s head has gone to Phil’s shoulder. He shakes, on a precipice that Xinjung is bringing to and Phil has allowed him to go over. 

‘No,’ Zihao gasps. ‘I want—Phillip, I want—’

‘Yes?’ Xinjung prompts kindly. 

‘I cannot until His Highness—’ He chokes off, and Xinjung’s hand has stilled, gone tight and bruising. Zihao’s whole body feels taut. 

‘What a good servant,’ Xinjung murmurs. He leans forward, his head reaching over Zihao’s shoulder and pressing Zihao harder against Phil so he almost stumbles. Xinjung’s lips meet Phil’s, and Phil sighs into the kiss. 

He should have more control over this, extend more authority, but he lets it happen. He lets Zihao, maddened on the edge of orgasm, get jostled between them. He lets Xinjung murmur in his ear until his breath quickens, relishes in the weak pressure of Zihao’s breath against his neck, holding onto him like a lifeline.

‘We should have you seen to, Your Royal Highness,’ Xinjung says. His pupils have filled his irises, and Phil feels as if he is falling into the darkness of them. ‘We’ve left you unattended.’

‘On the contrary,’ Phil murmurs. ‘I’m very well tended.’

‘I could offer you more, Your Highness.’

It takes Phil a moment to realise: the voice comes not from Xinjung or Zihao—but Nojah. Phil doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there. He swallows a sharp breath as he catches sight of Nicolas standing just behind the Nioti prince, wide-eyed and flushed. Zihao staggers away, a hand hiding his modesty as he crowds against the pagoda’s back railing. So typically stalwart, so proper—he has come undone.

‘Oba—’ Phil starts.

‘No apologies, please,’ says Nojah, holding up a hand as he approaches. His gaze slides to Xinjung’s. ‘Thank you for letting me know where I might find him. The voyage was worth it for this sight.’ 

Phil stares at Xinjung. The man has orchestrated this whole evening. A part of Phil knows this, but he has never considered how many players Xinjung has roped into his game. 

‘Don’t look at me like that, Your Highness,’ Xinjung says. ‘I have kept each one of your interests in mind. In particular…’ His eyes drift down Phil’s chest, go lower. Xinjung wets his lips. ‘Oba,’ he says, without looking back to the prince. ‘Would you like to join us? The stablehand can come too.’

Nojah smiles, comes forward. Nicolas follows.

Phil grimaces. ‘Nicolas, don’t—’

‘Let the man have his fun,’ says Xinjung, lightly chastising. ‘He might not win your hand but he’ll take your cock.’ 

‘Xinjung—’ Phil hisses.

‘Allow me, my lord,’ says Nicolas. He has gone to his knees before Phil, has one hand on Phil’s calf, the other reaching through the buttons of his trousers and pressing his warm hand against Phil’s half-hard cock. 

‘Nicolas,’ Phil groans, distracted by Nic’s auburn head bowed at his feet, dressed like Krijksdam royalty. A quiet war takes place within him. 

‘You change your mind so quickly, Your Highness,’ says Xinjung, watching eagerly. 

‘I don’t—’ Phil swears under his breath as Nic’s hot breath hits his bare skin. ‘I don’t believe I ever— _fuck_ —said no.’

Xinjung chuckles darkly, stepping back to allow Nojah to pass around him and stand at Phil’s back, his broad chest flush against Phil’s shoulder blades. Firm fingertips go to Phil’s jaw, tilting his head back, and Phil swallows his breath. 

‘May I, Your Highness?’ Nojah murmurs.

Phil nods. He says nothing; what Xinjung has cultivated tonight is no space for talking. Between Nojah’s kisses that now press against his lips and Nic’s lips that press against his cock, he can do nothing. He knows Xinjung is watching. He hears, distantly, Zihao beginning to pant, and knows Xinjung has distracted him with his touch, bringing him to an edge he cannot cross. 

Phil cries out into Nojah’s mouth. Nic’s mouth seems to have swallowed him whole, the tip of him nudging against the back of Nic’s throat. There’s nowhere else for him to go. His hips buck helplessly into the wet heat of Nic’s mouth, and Nic lets him. 

_I’ll bruise him,_ Phil thinks. And then another, darker thought: _I don’t care._

Phil’s hands tighten in Nic’s red hair, tugging him closer, and Nojah’s warm kisses swallow Phil’s cries. Nojah’s large hand has gone to Phil’s throat, a heavy weight that holds itself there, just shy of restricting his airflow. He feels the strength of it, and he nods. 

Nojah takes his cue: his hand tightens, the muscles in his hand convulsing around Phil’s throat. They are not kissing now—their mouths are merely locked, and Phil can focus on nothing else but the loss of breath and the tight pressure of Nic’s mouth around his cock. Nic’s tongue moves evenly along him, and his hand goes to Phil’s base: squeezing, relaxing, a spasming touch that Phil loses himself in. 

He’s going to spill his cum down Nic’s throat, and Nic will swallow it. 

Phil wants to look at him; he wants to watch as it happens, but the pressure Nojah has around his throat is unyielding, forcing their mouths together. He strains against, knowing that Nojah would release him the moment he wished, but he doesn’t. It’s a moment he cannot control: stood between two men who take from him. He lets them.

Nic’s throat works around his cock, the walls convulsing as he swallows, his hand teasing with practiced insistence. They’ve crossed too many boundaries for Phil to hold back now. 

Nojah drums his fingers against Phil’s throat. Phil can feel Nojah’s hips rutting against his back, his cock jutting against the base of his spine, picking up pace. Almost, Phil feels used. Mostly, he wants to feel Nojah’s hot skin against his own, a hand on the back of his neck, Nojah bending him over the wall of the pagoda while he fucks into him. 

He comes. 

His eyes roll to the back of his head, his neck arching backwards as Nojah shudders and half-collapses against him. Nic cries out from where he kneels on the floor, both hands on Phil’s hips—bracing himself and trying to move away in the same token. He swallows every bit. 

The sound of their panting fills the evening air. Nojah’s grip loosens on Phil’s throat and Phil buckles forward, his breath catching in his throat at the unobstructed rush of air. Nic’s eyes are red and streaming, his mouth looks bruised. He looks like a Krijksdam whore, and Phil has used him as such. Phil swallows.

‘Nicolas—’

‘Thank you, Your Highness,’ Nic rasps, and Phil goes silent. He spots the bright gleam of Nic’s eyes, the slow smile that is starting to form. He’d wanted this just as much—every bit. 

Phil realises he’s still hard, and Nic seems to realise in the same moment, too. 

Nic’s eyes widen as Phil feels the rush of blood and heat between his thighs, and Nic follows. 

‘My lord—’ he begins.

From behind them, Xinjung crows with laughter. He stands behind Zihao, his hand lazily pumping at Zihao’s cock, who looks edged to deliriousness. He can barely stand. 

‘When was the last time you _bedded_ anyone, Your Highness?’ Xinjung chortles.

Phil smiles. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’

‘I think your advisor would,’ Xinjung replies darkly, shoving Zihao forward. Zihao stumbles, and Phil takes hold of him by the arms. Zihao is shaking. 

‘Please, Phillip,’ Zihao whispers. ‘Please.’

Phil swallows. He only watches as Zihao steps back from him, slowly peeling away his clothes with a flush across his wiry body that is sinful. He goes to one of the low bamboo pallets on the floor, kneels down and faces away. Presenting. Oil runs between his legs, and Phil sees Xinjung pocket a vial. Prepared.

‘Fuck,’ Phil mutters. 

‘You should take him, Your Highness,’ Nojah rumbles at his back. Phil jumps when Nojah’s large hand wraps itself around his cock, pumping once, then twice. A small bead of pre-cum spills from the tip that Nojah thumbs away to taste. 

And then there are hands, suddenly, everywhere: Nicolas is removing Phil’s clothes, and then his own, which Phil watches pool on the floor with some sadness before noting, with quiet glee, the freckles dusted across Nic’s chest. Then Nojah is pushing Phil down to his knees, shuffling him forward until his thighs press against the back of Zihao’s, trembling like a colt. Nojah guides Phil in. 

‘Fuck,’ Phil says again. 

‘Stars,’ he hears Nojah mutter from behind him. 

Zihao is impossibly tight, but the oil lets Phil push into him without stopping. Xinjung has prepared him well, and Phil knows he won’t last long. Nojah’s hands are on Phil’s hips, rocking him back and forth, settling him into a rhythm of skin pounding against skin. Phil can’t see Zihao’s face, but he places a palm on his shoulder, runs his thumb against the juncture of his spine. 

‘Thank you, my lord,’ he hears Zihao whisper. _‘Thank you.’_

Zihao says nothing more: Xinjung is kneeling before him. Now, Xinjung wears nothing, no ceremonial clothes, and his cock slides past Zihao’s lips. Zihao is jolted between them as Phil’s hips pump against him and Zihao slides forward onto Xinjung’s cock. 

Phil’s eyes roam the curved slope of Zihao’s back, his shoulder blades, and then where his mouth is joined at Xinjung’s hips. Phil’s eyes lock with Xinjung, who is smiling. Beneath his robes, Xinjung is astonishing: hard muscle and dark nipples, the length between his thighs long enough for Zihao to catch on the back of his throat. 

Phil swears under his breath as Zihao trembles around him, then watches speechlessly as Xinjung holds out the glass vial—not to Phil, but past him. To Nojah. 

Phil is distantly aware of the glass stopper being removed, of oil running down the base of his spine and between his buttocks. His mind fixates on the gentle pressure of Nojah’s fingertip running in small circles across his skin—his back, his buttocks, the backs of his thighs, and then pressing even gentler at his entrance. 

Phil draws in a sharp breath, his hips stuttering against Zihao, who moans around Xinjung’s cock. Xinjung’s eyes shut briefly at the vibrating sensation from Zihao’s tongue, and Phil admires the fleeting show of Xinjung lost to touch and sex, no longer its commander but another plaything, as he has made them all. 

‘Is this acceptable, Your Highness?’ Nojah breathes into Phil’s ear, fingertips pressing insistently now.

Phil nods, breathing hard. ‘Go on,’ he says hoarsely. He buckles forward as Nojah pushes a finger inside, the movement curious and probing, as he crooks it inwards, beckoning from the inside. He chokes out as Nojah offers another—and then, after a moment, a third—trying to maintain pace as he rocks against Zihao. 

His stomach twists at the emptiness of it when Nojah’s fingers pull out, then feels his breath leave him when they’re replaced by the tip of Nojah’s cock. Phil goes still. Before him, Zihao whines at the loss of movement. 

‘Keep going,’ Xinjung commands, but Phil shakes his head. He can concentrate on nothing but Nojah’s size trying to push its way in. His eyes have gone uncontrollably wide. He can’t breathe.

 _It won’t fit,_ he thinks in a panic, jolting forwards as if to escape, only succeeding in burying himself further into Zihao who chokes on Xinjung’s cock, pinned between them.

‘Breathe,’ Nojah murmurs. ‘You can take it, Your Highness.’

Agonising moments go past, where no one moves. 

And then, eventually, Nojah begins to shift. 

‘Oh, stars—’ Phil whispers, his head bowed. He’s all but plastered to Zihao’s back now, sweat running across their skin, and Phil lets Nojah’s thrusts push him inwards. His hips move backwards of their own accord, trying to chase the fullness, and he hears Nojah chuckle deeply. 

‘Come here, boy,’ says Nojah. 

Near-delirious, Phil realises he’s talking to Nicolas, who is standing off to one side and merely watching, his hand moving between his thighs, moving with excruciatingly slowness so as to stave off his own orgasm. 

Nojah says, ‘Let me taste you.’

Nic is smaller than the rest of him, not much older than Phil but still almost boyish: his chest and hips are narrow, his limbs slight. He has the stronger thighs and arms of a man used to working with horses, but his muscles are proportionate with the rest of him. When he stands at the side of the Nioti prince, who is kneeling, the size disparity is almost comical. 

_Nojah would break him_ , Phil thinks briefly. The thought sends a shiver through him, sharp and piercing as a needle. He watches as Nojah takes Nic’s cock in his mouth, Nic’s hands going hesitantly to Nojah’s shoulders, as if he’s unsure what to do with them—as if it would be impolite to touch.

There are no rules here—no caste systems to follow. There is only the curling of toes and the sparks that shoot up Phil’s back and throw his head back in pleasure. There is only skin on skin and the five of them, somehow, all connected. Phil closes his eyes, moving and letting himself be moved. It’s almost too much, too hot, too much bare skin pressing around his own.

The sound of grunting and hips snapping together punctuates the air. Phil shuts his mind off to it; he groans at the pressure of Nojah filling him up from the inside, of Zihao receiving the same, held up by Xinjung’s hand fisting in Zihao’s hair when Zihao’s arms buckle beneath him. 

‘At your leisure, Your Highness,’ says Xinjung, eyes fixing on Phil’s. They’re tight at the corners—strained. Xinjung’s close. He nods down at Zihao, who’s gone silent and pliant, seizing up. _Together,_ Xinjung’s look says.

Phil draws his lip between his teeth and nods. A pressure has started to build in his abdomen; his hips have started to ache. He holds Xinjung’s gaze, feeling a lump start to form in his throat at the intimacy of their sharing. His movements grow erratic, faltering, and Nojah makes a guttural sound around Nic’s cock while Phil’s rocking stutters.

‘Ready?’ Xinjung asks, strained. His knuckles have gone white as they knot in Zihao’s hair, and he’s breathing shallowly. 

‘Go on,’ says Phil. 

‘After you, _Your Highness_.’

The sly tone and imperious smile tips Phil over the edge. It’s scathing and playful and commanding—it’s wicked in a way Phil finds himself impossibly drawn to—and he chokes out as the orgasm charges through him. Zihao makes a weak sound as Phil fills him from the inside. 

Xinjung only gaps as he comes, pitched forward at the waist as Phil had done with Nicolas, holding him there, making sure Zihao takes every part of him. 

Phil hears Nojah grunt, withdrawing quickly, and a strip of wet heat is smeared across Phil’s back as he moans at the emptiness. There’s a cry, Nic’s shout piercing the air as he spills into Nojah’s mouth—and then all is silent. 

They collapse to the floor of the garden pagoda as one, spent and exhausted and groaning, glistening skin painted with each others’ sweat and cum. Phil lies on his back with Zihao curled against him, and stares at the lattice roof that stretches out above them to reveal pockets of starlight. He knows Xinjung is staring at him. 

After a minute, Xinjung says, ‘How the fuck are you still hard?’

Phil glances down at himself. After a moment, his gaze slides back to Xinjung’s. 

‘Are you offering?’ Phil asks. 

Xinjung shakes his head in disbelief, but makes no protest. He gets to his knees, crawls efficiently over Zihao’s prone body stretched out between them, and settles between Phil’s spread thighs. Xinjung bows over him, hot breath on Phil’s belly, and the first touch is heaven. Phil’s eyelids flutter shut, and his hand combs through Xinjung’s hair.

At the first kiss of Xinjung’s mouth, he whispers, _‘Yes.’_

///

‘Nicolas?’

A groan; a whimper. ‘Your Highness, I—’

‘One more.’

‘Phillip, I can’t—’

‘Please, Nicolas. Only one, I promise. One more.’

Movement, carefully detangling themselves from other bodies that lay warm and spent. The hot pressure of one body joining with another.

A sigh.

‘That’s it, Nicolas. You’ve been so good to me.’

There’s a groan. ‘Any—anything for you, Your Highness.’

///

There are other men. They come and go until dawn, when the garden and pagoda is a sprawling mass of spent bodies and men stumbling to find their clothes before their carriages leave through the gates of the palace. Phil knows a handful of names, forgets others, but knows he’ll remember how they felt and tasted and came undone when touched.

Xinjung wakes from his slumber when the garden is bathed orange with the glow of an early sunrise, and Phil’s hips snap lazily into the juncture of some young lord’s thighs. 

Xinjung pulls himself up, his weight leant back onto his elbows. He watches Phil move with a heavy-lidded gaze and shakes his head in minute wonder.

‘Have you chosen yet?’ he asks. 

Phil glances down at the pale-haired lord, whose head lolls about and whose small mouth parts with quiet gasps. 

‘Not yet,’ says Phil. He can feel a slow smile wrapping around his lips. Xinjung hadn’t accounted for this, but he watches nonetheless, an indulgent spectator who cannot look away. Somewhere, Nic, Zihao and Nojah have collapsed among the heap. Phil will be ready for them when they wake. 

Xinjung shakes his head again. ‘How many more?’

Phil doesn’t reply. His hips rock back and forth, unhurried. The pace is slow, torturous, made for the morning. He curls his fingers around the lord’s cock, pumps it with his hand—just a touch, no more. When Phil feels the man tighten around him, he lets go. He watches the exquisite pain that comes over the man’s face. Phil keeps going. 

‘Fuck,’ Xinjung murmurs. He lies back down, stretching his arm out. His fingertips sweep across the ridges of a stranger’s spine, indolent wanting, back and forth. ‘Well,’ he sighs. ‘Let me know when you’re done, I suppose.’

‘You might be waiting a while,’ Phil tells him. 

Xinjung chuckles darkly. He stares at Phil, watching him fuck. ‘That’s alright, Your Highness. I don’t mind watching.’

**Author's Note:**

> Please remember to **kudos, comment, or check out more ways of supporting me[on Tumblr](http://agapaic.tumblr.com)** if you enjoy my work! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and stay safe!


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